The Advantages Of Mud
by brahdley jims
Summary: Maybe, just maybe, there are advantages to getting covered in mud and humiliated in front of all your classmates. For the Translated Weird Singer challenge. Read and review, please.


**AN: This was written for the Translated Weird Singer challenge on HPFC, by Sacripme. My lyric was 'the kitchen is my kingdom', and my character was Louis.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing and nobody. Except Imelda Jackson.**

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><p>"Now, everybody. Stick your hand out and say 'Up!'"<p>

Louis Weasley sighed. This was his third flying lesson in his first year of Hogwarts, and in his opinion, it was absolutely pointless for him to even attend these lessons. He glanced up the row of students he was stood in line with, all now barking the word 'Up!' like dogs begging for attention. They sounded ridiculous. Madame Hooch was strolling along the two rows of Hufflepuffs and Slytherins, nodding approvingly at the people who'd managed to get their broomstick into their hand on the first try.

Louis knew he didn't have anything better to do, and Madame Hooch would be coming his way soon, so he stuck his hand out and half-heartedly demanded, "Up!"

His broom remained still on the soggy grass by his feet. "Up!" he commanded again. The broom rolled over limply, which only caked it in mud. Evil, sodding broomstick. He glared at the stupid thing like that would make it suddenly fly up into his hand.

Madame Hooch's hawk eyes swept over the line of Hufflepuffs and picked him out immediately. As usual. Louis sighed again as she strode towards him. Why couldn't she just admit that he was never going to be a very good flyer – or a safe one at that – and move on to another poor soul? Imelda Jackson next to him was having just as much trouble with her broom, but Madame Hooch never picked on her.

"Come on, then, Mr Weasley. Let's see what you can do." He hid a scowl. She knew very well he couldn't do anything with this bloody broom. It was out to humiliate him, he knew it.

"Up!" Louis barked out, not holding out much hope. As he'd expected, the broom didn't move. Madame Hooch stifled a sigh as he tried again. "Up!"

"I expect that broom to be in your hand by the time I address the class in five minutes," Madame Hooch said sternly, before striding away to congratulate yet another person who'd gotten the hang of this so very easily. Louis made a face at her retreating back, and returned his glare to his broom, running a hand through his blonde hair.

What did people see in brooms anyway? They were just polished bits of wood. Why would you bother polishing a stick? Who came up with that idea? Quidditch was just as useless and insane. Louis held no sympathy for the poor fools who actually volunteered to get on those death-traps, fly around _several hundred feet in the air, _dodging other players who were just as crazy and vicious as you, with four balls zooming around left, right and centre – bearing in mind that three of those were absolutely massive, not to mention heavy, and two were constantly out to kill you. The eleven-year-old in Louis stifled a snort as he thought of _big balls._

No, Louis Weasley did not belong on the Quidditch pitch. Or anywhere near a broom. Or anything that could hover more than a foot off the floor. Louis was happiest in the kitchen. That was where his kingdom was. Baking cakes and biscuits and pastries and puddings, cooking stews and roast dinners and pasta. Cooking took a lot more skill than Quidditch. You had to get everything just right, down to the finest detail – or you could branch off and just experiment, with anything, and produce something strange, something beautiful, or just something nobody had ever seen before. If you got one thing wrong, you got the whole thing wrong, and practice always made perfect. There were so many things to learn, and if you learned them all, you simply invented something of your own creation. How many things could you learn in Quidditch? You could practice, practice, practice, but you couldn't try anything new. Everything's been done before. That wasn't the case with food.

"Alright, everyone, turn to face me!" Madame Hooch called, and Louis had to refrain from cursing. His broom still lay motionless on the wet, muddy ground. Even Imelda Jackson had managed to get a hold of her broom by now.

Right, he'd just have to stoop down and grab the broom. Madame Hooch was addressing the Slytherins right now, she wouldn't see. Bending low, he reached out a hand to snatch up the broom and –

SQUELCH.

The broom decided it didn't want to be picked up that way, rolled sideways and tripped Louis up, just as he moved his foot forward. The blonde Hufflepuff lost his balance and fell, face-forward, into the thick, sticky pool of mud at Imelda Jackson's feet.

"Louis Weasley!"

Oh, for Merlin's sake.

"Mr Weasley, get up this instant. What were you doing? How dare you mess around with that broom?"

"Madame Hooch, he wasn't messing around, he was just –" Who was defending him?

"Not now, Miss Jackson. Mr Weasley, go inside at once and get cleaned up. Don't dawdle."

Miss Jackson? _Imelda _had tried to stand up for him?

Louis picked himself up off the floor, wiping his eyes to try and clear the mud that was obscuring his vision. The Slytherins were in hysterics as he walked away, his robes absolutely filthy and dripping with mud – but he didn't care. He'd glanced at Imelda as he stood up, and the brunette Hufflepuff had sent him a sympathetic smile.

Imelda Jackson had _smiled _at him.

Imelda Jackson had _stood up _for him.

Maybe, Louis decided as he walked away towards the castle, with the jeering taunts of the Slytherins behind him, there were _a few _things that were better than cooking.

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><p><strong>Please <span>review<span> :)**


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